by Mary Campisi
Finding work wasn’t the problem; figuring out the direction of his life—that was the problem. He liked the town, wanted to settle in, get to know people so he wasn’t the outsider, though in a place like this, he’d probably always be an outsider, right along with Harry Blacksworth. But he wanted Maggie and William to be part of his life, wanted them to be his family. But what if she flat-out refused to give them a second chance? It had all made sense before he set foot in this town. If she said no to what he was offering, he’d planned to respect her decision, gift her the house, and leave. Period. That had been a logical decision with the emotion wiped clean, but that was before he saw her again, before he met his son.
How would he ever be able to just let them go? The answer slammed against his chest, burst into his brain, hard, fast, and with a force that said, You can’t let them go. No matter what, you can’t let them go.
***
Harry Blacksworth was a man of his word. When he’d offered the name of his hair stylist, Grant didn’t think the man meant his wife. But when Grant stopped into Harry’s Folly, inquiring about the owner, the waiter ushered him to a booth in the back of the restaurant where the man himself sat eating a plate of pasta. Harry looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading and grinned.
“How are you?”
Grant nodded, said, “Pretty well, Harry. You?”
“Great. Better than great.” He twirled a forkful of pasta, held it up. “Trying out the new puttanesca sauce. Spicy as hell. They don’t call it the whore’s spaghetti sauce for nothing.” He plopped the pasta in his mouth, chewed, the expression on his tanned face a mix of wonder and pleasure. “Sit down and I’ll have Jeremy fix you a bowl.”
“Thanks, but I just finished lunch.”
Harry Blacksworth cocked a brow, gave him a what-the-hell’s-that-got-to-do-with-anything look and added sound to the expression. “Never stopped me before. Good food is good food.” He patted his flat belly. “That’s why they invented exercise machines.”
Grant laughed at that and slid into the booth. No sense going into the other benefits of exercise or the nonbenefits of eating just to eat. This man had his own opinions and Grant bet not a lot of people could change them. “Actually, I came to take you up on the haircut offer.” He ran a hand through his hair, toyed with the small flip at the back of his neck. “I’m about to head to Kit’s Primp and Polish. I can get a cut and a hand massage for ten bucks.”
Harry pointed his fork at Grant. “Do not let that woman touch your hair. She tried to talk me into bleached-blond streaks, said it’s what the Hollywood types did. Why the hell would she think I wanted to be like Hollywood?” He blew out a disgusted sigh. “That’s the problem with this damn world; everybody trying to be somebody else instead of who they are.” His blue gaze latched onto Grant. “Know what I mean?” When Grant nodded, Harry continued, his voice growing louder, more rambunctious. “We’re all pretty much screw-ups and what’s the sense of pretending we’re not? We’re only kidding ourselves and then not doing a very good job of it.” He took a healthy sip of wine, set the glass down. “But in the center of all the screw-ups, there can still be a decent guy, somebody who gets it right every once in a while. That’s what happened to me, but not until I found a woman who saw my ‘potential,’ as she likes to call it.”
“Potential, huh?”
Harry grinned, turned a dull red beneath the tan. “Greta just would not give up on me. I got tired of fighting her, and after a lot of dumb-ass mistakes, I started to trust what she said about me. And you know what? It made me want to be better.” He studied Grant a second too long. “I heard you got an eye on that pretty little thing who works in the physical therapy department at the hospital. The one with the sad eyes, daughter of my plumber’s lady friend. Herb told me her name.” He rubbed his jaw, frowned. “Melinda? Melissa? Melanie?”
“Maggie,” Grant said, trying to keep his voice even, his demeanor casual, as though Maggie Cartwright hadn’t set up camp in the middle of his brain and refused to leave.
“Maggie!” Harry Blacksworth slapped the table, laughed. “That’s it! Nice girl. Herb said she’s a widow, said her husband died of leukemia a few years ago. Damn sad deal. I hear she’s got a boy. You like kids?”
“Sure.” Especially if the kid’s mine.
“Good. Herb said the boy’s a little brain but kind of awkward. That’s a tough gig, but you can help him out. I changed my stepson’s name from Arnold to AJ and put a golf club in his hand. The kid’s confidence jumped. Now, I’m not saying he’s not still the oddball who can’t figure out squat when he’s around girls, but he’s better. Happier, too.”
“I don’t think William has a confidence problem.”
“Oh.” Harry nodded, toyed with his fork. “So, he’s a nerd and doesn’t know it?”
William was not a nerd. “Intelligence doesn’t label you a nerd, Harry. The boy’s inquisitive and acts on it.”
“There’s intelligence and then there’s fitting in. My brother was one of the most intelligent people I ever met, and he fit in. I’m guessing by the looks and sounds of you, you’re in that category, too. But the way Herb talked, the boy isn’t. I’ll even venture he’s more interested in figuring out how a clock works than talking to a bunch of people, including kids his age.”
Grant shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’d say yes.” So what if William liked mechanical contraptions better than nonsensical chatter?
“Probably doesn’t have a lot of friends, speaks like an adult. Hell, acts like an adult most of the time.” He paused, eyed Grant. “How am I doing?”
Harry’s assessment was probably closer than Grant cared to admit. Was the boy socially awkward? And if so, did he know? And if he did, was he miserable about it, or didn’t he care? Should Grant ask Maggie about it, see if there was something he could do to help? But what if the boy—
“Grant.” Harry’s voice slipped between the questions, quiet, gentle. “Kids are what make us all gray, or grayer.” He grinned, lifted his wine glass. “You want to protect them, but you can’t, not from unkind words or mean-spiritedness. All you can do is be there for them. I’ve got two step-kids, AJ and Lizzie, and I love them like they’re my own. And then there’s Jackson, the baby. I’d do anything to spare them hurt, and it’s the knowing I can’t that eats at me. Ask any parent, and they’ll tell you the same thing.” He finished his wine, set the empty glass on the table. “You have any kids?”
Grant hesitated, part of him wanting to claim his son, the other part desperate to protect him. The protective part won out. “No, not yet.”
Harry Blacksworth nodded. “I got started late. Don’t wait, that’s my advice. Kids will wear you out, wanting to play ball, climb the tree fort, pitch a tent in the backyard and sleep in the damn thing. I’m used to a bed, not a sleeping bag. But if your kid asks you, what are you supposed to do? Tell them you have a bad back or your bum knee’s acting up? Nope.” He smiled, as if remembering those events. “You do it, and you shut up about the back and the knee and the headache you’re going to have in the morning.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Harry’s blue eyes glittered with emotion. “And I do not even want to think about the first time Lizzie brings a boy home or AJ gets his driving permit. I have to build up to it. But there’s one promise I can make you and this comes from a man who loved his freedom. There’s nothing like a child to make you understand the meaning of life.” He settled against the back of the booth, let out a laugh that filled the area. “And that’s straight from Harry Blacksworth’s Book of Life. Now let’s get you that bowl of pasta puttanesca and then we’ll get you a haircut.”
There really was no arguing with the man. Ten minutes later, a waiter placed the dish of pasta in front of Grant. Two minutes and a few bites after that, Chef Jeremy, creator of the puttanesca dish, stood at their table, inquiring after the meal. When he left, Harry filled him in on the young man with the flattop: how his father was the police c
hief, how the boy had tried police work and hated it, how he was sweet on a girl with another man’s baby in her belly. He told him how the boy had no real “food” experience when Harry hired him other than the town’s word of mouth. But once inside that kitchen, the boy’s skill rivaled top chefs’, and Harry should know since he’d spent a good part of his life in restaurants. He said sometimes a person just needed someone to believe in him enough to give him a chance.
While Harry expounded on chance, choice, and opportunity, Grant listened. And ate. He’d polished off three quarters of the pasta before Harry stopped midsentence, grinned, and said maybe Grant was hungry after all. Or maybe there was something about Harry Blacksworth that pulled people in, made them want to hear his off-the-cuff philosophizing on life and living.
The haircut was another revelation. The “salon” was the basement of Harry’s home, though the term home was too tame a word for the residence. Mansion would be a more appropriate description of a place with a bowling alley, spa, weight room, and juice bar in the basement. Harry didn’t seem affected by the splendor, acted like he didn’t even notice the pool table or the theater room. But then, he didn’t seem to notice the juice stain his youngest left on his shirt either. Or the one on the carpet. Was that what having a family did to a man—mellowed him out, made him realize what was really important in life, and tuned him out to the rest?
Grant had no idea about that, wondered if his nemesis Jack Wheyton had mellowed out now that he had a wife and child. A spurt of pain shot through his left temple, worked its way to the other side. Maybe one day the man wouldn’t bother him so much, but that day hadn’t come yet. Maybe it never would.
Greta Blacksworth was as charming and unaffected as her husband. She blushed when Harry confessed she’d been his sister-in-law’s cook and he’d been the reason Greta had been fired. He didn’t elaborate about the firing, but his expression turned fierce when he mentioned the sister-in-law, mumbled something about “a real piece of work.”
“I’ve heard much about you, Grant,” Greta said in a soft accent. “I believe all of the single women in town are hoping to meet you.”
He laughed, didn’t miss the humor in her voice as she lifted a section of his hair, snipped. “I’m really not that interesting.”
“They seem to think you are.” Snip, snip, snip. “Even the married ones are asking about you. They want to know where you come from, are you divorced, widowed, in a relationship. These women are very thorough with their questions and speculations.” She paused, cleared her throat. “Like the fish that eat other fish. Be careful or they will gobble you up.”
Grant laughed again. “Thanks for the warning.” In his experience, some women were piranhas, some barracudas, and some were goldfish. Problem was, you couldn’t always tell which was which, not until you were deep in the water and they were swimming toward you.
“You’re welcome.” Her voice softened. “It must be difficult to not know if you are loved for yourself or because you are a doctor with the looks of a movie star.”
Difficult? He’d actually enjoyed the chase, but he’d grown tired of it. Once he’d spent two minutes with Maggie, he realized just how much he didn’t want that other life. What he wanted were Maggie and William. With a lot of prayer and a little luck, he’d get that chance. “I like to think I’m more than a smile and a degree, but some people never look past that.”
“No, they don’t.” She worked a bit of mousse through his hair, flicked on the blow dryer. “Some people can’t look past a less-than-pleasant face or lack of education. They judge and they discard, many times without a single word.”
Had someone done this to her? Certainly they hadn’t discarded her for a “less-than-pleasant face” because Greta Blacksworth was a beauty, but what about her education? Did she have one? Or was she limited by a language barrier, socioeconomic issues, young children, the need to work? Had Harry’s sister-in-law held it against her, maybe taunted her, and had Harry rushed to the rescue? Grant didn’t know much about the man, but what little he did know made him think Harry Blacksworth might champion the underdog. “People who do that are narrow-minded and I wouldn’t waste my time on them.”
“Amen to that!” Harry Blacksworth looked up from the collection of trucks he and his youngest son had lined side by side. “That’s what I’ve been telling Greta all along; from the first time that evil sister-in-law of mine cut her the eye to the witch’s last breath.” His blue gaze sparked when he said, “Anybody tell you about Gloria Blacksworth yet? How she tried to break up her own daughter’s marriage? That woman was bitter and ungrateful, and the saddest excuse for a parent you could ever imagine. She got exactly what she deserved.” The gaze narrowed when he spit out, “A place on a mantel.”
“Harry,” Greta said. “You will give Grant the wrong impression about you.”
“I doubt that. Something tells me he’s not much different from me when it comes to protecting his own.” He eyed Grant. “What do you say? If Little Miss Sad Eyes and her son were yours, and someone came after them, would you do what you had to in order to protect them?”
“Who is Little Miss Sad Eyes and her son?” Greta asked, confusion in her voice.
Harry threw back his head and laughed. “You’ll find out soon enough, Greta, once Grant figures out his game plan. When that happens, the women in this town will be crying so hard they’ll flood the streams.”
Chapter 12
Grant stood at the door, dressed in tailored jeans and a button-down white shirt. So handsome, so alive…
“Maggie? Are you okay?”
“Maggie?”
No, I haven’t been okay since your sister told me you were dying. “Can I come in?” She didn’t wait for an answer but swept past him into the foyer. His sister had said the house would be Maggie’s “when the time came” but what she’d meant to say was “when Grant dies.”
“What’s wrong? Is it William?”
She shook her head, got lost in those blue eyes, that soft voice. Since the moment his sister had delivered the news two days ago, Maggie had battled common sense, logic, and the pull of her heart. What if karma had given her and Grant a second chance, no matter how short? What if all there really was in life was this moment? Should she take it? Or should she barricade her heart, resist whatever emotions pulsed to the surface? He will die, logic reminded her. Do not open your heart again. But her heart whispered, He is alive now. Take the chance. Logic scolded, Love him and the loss will be even greater than before. Her heart ignored logic. But the love could be so much greater than before...so much richer.
Maggie ignored logic, stepped toward Grant, and stopped when she was a touch away. “Don’t ask why,” was all she said before she cupped his face with her hands, leaned on tiptoe, and kissed him softly on the mouth. Once. Twice. The third kiss turned explosive as she threw her arms around his neck, pressed her body against his. He will die…he’s alive now…he will die...he’s alive now…
Grant broke the kiss, his expression fierce, eyes glittering. “What are you doing? Tell me what’s happened.”
But she couldn’t; all she could do was take this moment and be alive—with him. “No questions. Please.” She touched his jaw, trailed a hand to his lips. “Not tonight.”
He hesitated, opened his mouth to speak, closed it. “I know I said I wouldn’t try to make our relationship physical unless it was what you wanted, but…this isn’t what I expected.”
“I know. Me neither.” But I didn’t expect to find out you’re dying. Why couldn’t you tell me?
He brushed his fingers against her cheek, his expression softening. “I don’t want you to regret this, and I’m afraid you will.”
Would she regret making love with him? Logic said she would because she’d expose herself to so many levels of hurt, but her heart said she’d regret it more if she didn’t. Maggie placed her hands on his waist, looked into his eyes, and let the truth spill out. “I’m here because it’s where I want to be.”
He didn’t look convinced. In fact, the pinched brows and the rigid stance said he was about to decline her unspoken offer and send her home. “I want more than a one-night stand with you.” His words pierced her heart, reached for her soul. “I want a lifetime, and I’m willing to wait.” He paused, his gaze burning into her.
There is no time to wait. When I lose you, I will have this to remember. Maggie released the top button of his shirt, slid her fingers to the second button, and released that, too. “I don’t want to wait. I want you,” she said, pushing aside the fear of loving and losing him once more. “Can you give me that?”
One final hesitation, another scalding look, and then he whispered her name. “Maggie.”
There were no words after that, nothing but need and desire wrapped in desperation as they shed their clothes and Grant led her upstairs to the king-size bed. The first time he took her, she remembered why she could never forget this touch. The second time, she showed him why he would never forget hers.
Later, as she lay against his chest, Grant stroked her hair and spoke into the darkness. “We’re going to have to talk about this.”